


Arthur and Alfred's Great Haunted Portrait Ripper Caper

by 50NoriStars



Series: Star Hero Post [9]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Halloween, Haunted Houses, Jack the Ripper Murders, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-28
Updated: 2020-09-28
Packaged: 2021-03-07 22:20:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 8,173
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26705137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/50NoriStars/pseuds/50NoriStars
Summary: When Alfred insults a haunted portrait of Arthur's relative, the relative sends them back in time to London's Autumn of Terror, so they can relive his magical attempts to hunt down Jack the Ripper.
Relationships: America/England (Hetalia)
Series: Star Hero Post [9]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1470365
Comments: 1
Kudos: 5





	1. Chapter 1

Kirkland House  
Downing Street, London

Arthur couldn't believe his luck as he led Alfred into the circular foyer of his historic family home. Finally! How he'd longed for this moment, to make up for the disaster that was Alfred's first visit to London six months prior. However, it was hardly an ideal time for either of them to renew a romantic relationship, as Arthur was still somewhat weak and unsteady on his feet after his bout with Covid-19 in Paris. Moreover Alfred was also weak and practically asleep on his feet after weeks of being treated in a Paris hospital, not for the virus as originally thought, but for a wound he had acquired while loading medical supplies on cargo planes in Alaska that had become infected and caused him to have a high fever.

"Haunted Mansion, Haunted Mansion. No Matty, no. Fucking hate this ride." That younger man mumbled as Arthur gently maneuvered him onto a black velvet hall chair. 

"Alfred, wake up luv. I know your pain meds make it difficult, but do try."

Alfred's blue eyes groggily opened behind his glasses only to widen when they spotted portraits lining the high curved walls. "Ah! Stretching portrait fuckers gonna attack my doom buggy, and my hand's a hitchhiking ghost!" Alfred referred to his heavily bandaged right thumb. 

At that Arthur whacked him with his hospital to go bag of medicines and wound care dressings. "Reference Disney's Haunted Mansion here, in my family's truly haunted British mansion? How very, utterly American of you Alfred." 

Alfred woke fully then, but soon his eyes drooped with boredom as he watched the Kirkland House staff whisk their luggage upstairs and take their dog and cat, Alfie Hero and Brows, to the kitchen for a meal. Then after hazarding a second glance at the portraits above them he declared. “Aw, I get it now. Those are boring British portraits, not scary Disney ones.” 

Arthur whacked him again “Utter _wanker _American.” He amended hotly.__

__“Why?” Alfred cocked his blonde head in confusion. “Cause I'm more scared of Disney ghosts that are kick ass, instead of lame British ghosts that only scare old dudes at Christmas?"_ _

__“Bloody hell, Alfred!” Arthur sputtered. “Never say Dickens' A Christmas Carol is your only reference to British ghosts?”_ _

__"Yep, and those ghosts are lame. Super lame.”_ _

__“They most certainly are not! But of course there are plenty of non-fictional British ghosts. Why, in my family alone there are dozens. And it hardly bears reminding that Alastair’s ghost blew you across a road and into a snowbank during our Christmas cracker search last year.”_ _

__“Yeah yeah, sure. Fucking Alastair.” Alfred nodded grudgingly, then argued. “But Alastair is Scottish, not British, like those pussy dudes up there.”_ _

__“Pussies you say? I’ll have you know my British ghost relatives are utterly fascinating and engaging in their way, if not brutish like Alastair.”_ _

__“Is that so.” Alfred made a great show of rolling his eyes in disbelief. “Name one.”_ _

__"Great Great Grand Uncle Squidge Bertie." Arthur stated without hesitation, and pointed to a diminutive, pale, mustachioed gentleman, oddly dressed in a shabby overcoat dotted with animal hair, that contrasted sharply with the clean, fussy suits his fellow portrait subjects wore._ _

__"Oh yeah, what'd your Great Great Grand Uncle Squid Nerdy do?"_ _

__Arthur hit him with the prescription bag a third time. "Squidge Bertie, I said. Git! And what did he do? He solved the Jack the Ripper case as it happens. By way of fantastical, supernatural means which he chronicled in those books there." He pointed at a glass case containing two antiquarian books. One was titled ‘The Cat in the Ripper's Hat,' and the other, 'The Dog's Devil Dinner.' "Now perhaps you'd care to read one and eat your words." Arthur suggested smugly._ _

__"Read, Arthur? Puh-leeze!” Alfred made a face. “The new books at the hospital were a yawn-fest, so those old books would really put me in a coma."_ _

__"A coma, indeed!" Arthur scoffed, then thought better of it as his green eyes turned fearful. "To be honest Alfred, the ghost of Great Great Grand Uncle Squidge Bertie has been known to put naysayers of his Jack the Ripper detective work in trance like states. So best mind your words around him."_ _

__"Oh yeah?" Alfred brightened, not the least bit afraid of what a stuffy Brit ghost could do to him. "Alright then.” He stood, and shouted up at the portrait. “Put me in a trance, squid nerdy! Go for it. I dare you." And just like that, the house grew eerily dark at the same time the portrait began to glow._ _

__"Ah! Ah!" A staff member that saw the portrait come to life immediately dropped the tea tray she'd been carrying and began shouting up the stairs and throughout the house to fellow staff. "It’s happening again. One of them portraits is in a state. Get a shift on or be damned!"_ _

__"Uh oh. Oh dear." Arthur exclaimed first at his glowing ancestor, then at his entire staff fleeing out the door. "Thank you, thank you all." He called after them. “A full day's wage plus hazard bonus for your trouble same as last time." The door slammed shut behind them to add to his apprehension._ _

__Alfred, however, wasn’t the least bit nervous. "Ha ha ha. Wimps! No way am I wimping out like them. Cuz I’m a hero more than some Jack the Ripper chasing old fart.”  
_ _

__

__

"Er, Alfred? Great Great Grand Uncle Squidge Bertie was young like us during his great caper." Arthur's voice began to shake as he heard a whooshing sound fast approaching. "As I suspect we're about to experience first hand." Were his last words before the portrait’s glow enveloped them to put their bodies in a trance even as their souls were _whooshed _back to the Autumn of Terror, and Great Great Grand Uncle Squidge Bertie's first forays into amateur detective work.__


	2. Chapter 2

Commercial Street  
Whitechapel, 1888

The whooshing noise was deafening, and the glow blinding, but at last it stopped and Arthur arrived...where? He wondered, relieved to at least feel solid ground beneath him. Then slowly, murkily, he could see and smell thick soot permeating the air to make his throat clench and eyes water. See and hear horses clopping and pulling carts amidst a crush of foot traffic. Feel his sturdy wool ditto suit of vest, jacket and trousers, and the pinch of equally sturdy leather boots that traversed cobblestone and brick alleyways so narrow, he was often forced to duck under arches or slide between buildings sideways. Only it wasn't his body he traversed late nineteenth century Whitechapel in. It was the diminutive body of Great Great Grand Uncle Squidge Bertie, who relished such surroundings and street vendor cashews that Arthur surprisingly found tasty as well. 

The cashews were soon followed by a baked potato, then jellied eels as Squidge Bertie patronized every vendor and newspaper stand he came across. But one week old Penny Illustrated Paper was kept firmly tucked in his vest and not discarded like the most current ones. This special paper featured an illustration of two bulldogs named Burgho and Barnaby, which Arthur saw when Squidge Bertie reread it excitedly. Bulldogs the headline speculated might be employed to sniff out the murderer should another attack occur. 

And another murder had taken place! Or so current newspapers all around them heralded. A horrific mauling off Dorset Street in Spitalfields just that morning, where Squidge Bertie was now headed in the hopes of catching a glimpse of the bulldogs at work. And what exciting modern times he lived in, to bear witness to such crime detection innovations! That man thought.

Sadly however, it wasn't to be. Arthur saw a packed carnival atmosphere greet Squidge Bertie when he arrived at what was normally considered to be the most avoided, crime ridden street in Spitalfields. That and the crushing sounds of police breaking down the crime scene door without a dog in sight. No dogs today then. Squidge Bertie conceded silently, even as the crowd gave voice to their disappointment. "Wot, no hounds?" They shouted their discontent, then gossiped to each other that the police probably didn't consider impoverished people like themselves worth employing dogs.

"Ah, that is disappointing." Squidge Bertie muttered to himself, then listened some more as details of the crime scene soon began to emerge, thanks to two boys that risked a hiding from police to have a peak. Apparently the victim had been completely annihilated this go around, the boys had seen through a cracked window. Body parts strewn everywhere, and hacks of flesh displayed on a table. 

"The man's a monster. An utter monster with the strength and size of a demon. Still the police can't find him, or won't." The crowd speculated and accused.

But then, most unexpectedly, a booming American voice drew their attention from across the street. "Now there you're just wrong, London folks! 'Cause it's not only big strong men that kill like that." 

Alfred? Arthur immediately thought, and his heart soared when through Squidge Bertie's eyes he spotted a young blonde man in a cowboy vest and canvas trousers holding a mallet and standing by an American themed 'test your strength' contraption, with Paul Bunyon's face on the bell being the highest ranking. "Womenfolk, no matter how small and prissy, can be violent too y'all! In fact, down south in my country, there was a fancy little madam that hacked up her slaves and hung them in her attic like meat carcases." The Alfred doppelganger rocked on his cowboy boot heels and grinned from ear to ear as he related the tale.

"Why, you don't say." Arthur heard Squidge Bertie exclaim and felt his heart skip a beat with excitement at such a prospect.

"Yep I said it." The Alfred-esque strongman grinned wider. "Name was Madame LaLaurie. Down in New O-leenz La-eezy-anna."

The crowd gaped at the American for a mere two seconds before ignoring him to continue salivating over the Ripper victim just yards away and her hacked off face and skinned thighs. 

"Hypocrites." Squidge Bertie called to them as he made his way over to the strongman. "A man just pointed out to you how half of Whitechapel's population is being discounted in the search for this killer, yet you lot not only carry on regarding women as victims only, you're absolutely over the moon about it. Despicable."

They ignored him as well, to make Squidge Bertie shake his head as he finished crossing the street to tip his bowler hat at the strongman. "My sincerest congratulations on such a clever observation, sir."

"Aw shucks. Weren't nothing." The blonde returned humbly. 

"Oh no, quite the contrary. The police should certainly take note that a female killer could be the cause of all this, AND the reason for their failure to crack the case so far. For who better to hide in plain sight than a woman?" 

"Yuh! Why not a woman? Prolly with a knife in a lady apron, not a leather apron like folks keep talking about, that the police could spot easy if they got to looking." 

"Ah, but they never will. Victorian sensibilities concerning ladies being delicate flowers who only resort to poison when murdering, and all that rubbish." Squidge Bertie sighed, then held out a hand. "By the by, my name is Sigmund Albert Kirkland, but everyone calls me Squidge Bertie because my skin looks like dough."

"Sure enough does! Not at all tan like me." The American laughed and slapped his knee. "And my name's Alonzo Wiley Jones. Called Jones around these parts." They shook hands. 

"Well, I say. It's been a great pleasure to meet you, Jones. Though I must admit, I would have preferred to meet Burgho and Barnaby, or at least catch a glimpse of them at their work." 

"The police bulldogs? Tar-nation!" Jones skewed up his tan face in disappointment. "They're the reason I came here too! Wanted to see them sniff out the she-cat I picture is the killer." 

"Picture her, do you?" Squidge Bertie was further intrigued. "Well then. You must tell me all about it once your strongman shift is over and my business is concluded at the bell foundry. Six o'clock shall we say? Over beef tripe soup at the Romanian restaurant?"

"Restaurant? I thought it was a magic shop?" Jones exclaimed.

"So it is. So it is." Squidge Bertie chuckled. "But they keep a corner table special for me, because their spell books are so intriguing I've fainted at times from reading too long. Hence the soup to keep me conscious, and spending of course." He tipped his hat in farewell, then headed off to conduct boring Kirkland family business that he didn't care a wit about. However, he hoped he could conclude it quickly so he could get to the magic shop and start planning a spell that was certain to catch a Jack, or _Jill _the Ripper with ease. "Yes and with a dog thrown in in honor of Burgho and Bartleby, and perhaps a cat as well since Jones mentioned she-cats!" He talked happily to himself as he walked, then treated himself to more cashews to celebrate.__


	3. Chapter 3

Zagravescu's Magic Shop  
Whitechapel, London. 1888

"You don't mind if I keep to talking, Sh-widge Ber-shish?"

"Not a bit of it, Jones. Keep me awake while I work on my spell a bit longer."

It was one a.m. Jones was drunk on Romanian plum brandy, head lolling back against a dark wood chair carved with mythical creature designs Squidge Bertie called dark, but shop owner Vlad behind the counter told him through sharp teeth. "My Romanian magic strong, not dark. Stronger than weak Celtic magic, which won't protect you from horror you find." He consulted tarot cards spread out before him. 

"Oh, do we crack the case then?" Squidge Bertie brightened. 

"No. You crack door open. Then one of you cry forever until baby born." 

"Charming." Squidge Bertie paid him for the reading and for coffee to be brought out. Vlad left in a flutter of ribbons hanging from his hat while Jones slurred.

"Cry. Cry. My brother and me don't cry no matter how many times police beat and question ush. Just cush we're foreign, don't make ush Jack the Ripper. 

“Certainly not, Jones. And I mean to write a letter to the magistrate about such unfair harassment.” 

“Yesh, write him. And tell him the Ripper ish female, so police get to lookin’ at females instead.” 

"Still think the Ripper's a woman do you?"

"Ab-sholutly! With knives down her apron that she cleans at her own kitchen hearth.”

"Her own kitchen hearth?" Squidge Bertie asked astounded. 'When whole families in Whitechapel are too poor to afford a single room?"

"Aw, she ain't no Whitechapel missy. No shir. She's a fancy miss with her own fancy place where she cooks fer her fancy man. Has to have her own place fer the cleaning and hiding evid-ensh, a course! And the fancy man’s her motive. 'Cuz why else would she kill prosh-titutes unless he was visiting them to make her feel a'scorned!" 

"You don't say!"

"Yuh, I say it. I say it and say it, but you're the first to get to lish-ning."

"Oh I am listening, Jones. I'm listening as closely as a man can listen while crafting a shape-shifting spell that will catch the Ripper. But first we must get you sober.” 

Vlad returned with Turkish coffee in a tiny cup. Jones initially scoffed at the size, but upon drinking it jolted awake then coughed to make his eyes water. "Heh heh. Coffee like crack in door. Make you cry forever." Vlad said.

“Not a bit of it, Vlad. Jones is a professional strongman.” Squidge Bertie told him.

“No strong enough for cracked door." Vlad declared, then said. "I hunt ripper as wolf. By morning ripper impaled, and no murder happen again here from fear."

Squidge Bertie shook his head. "Don't Vlad, I beg you. For Whitechapel residents would murder again, only each other as a result of vampire hysteria."

"Yuh, Vlad. And how will Marceu get to finishing chef learning school? If there ain't no garlic left over from vampire repelling to cook with?" Jones referred to his French Canadian brother attending a cooking college run by French immigrants.

Squidge Bertie stifled a laugh as Vlad's unusual red eyes narrowed. He's determining how best to impale that cowboy, on a steer's horns no doubt. Squidge Bertie thought to himself, then stood. "Right. Celtic magic will just have to do this time 'round, Vlad. To shape shift myself into a cat first, so I can get a sense of how our fair predator the Ripper makes his way about Whitechapel so stealthily. Then Jones as a dog, to sniff out the Ripper's exact routes and possible home location." 

The sound of a carriage's arrival heralded a delivery he was expecting. Vlad let in a coachman and a thirty-something year old woman, dressed as if on route to nurse someone. "I'm risking my husband's police job for this. But anything to catch the killer." She said nervously, then handed Squidge Bertie a blood stained print shawl. "Belonged to the second 'un. And would you believe my George meant to give it to me as a present after pocketing it at 'er crime scene?"

Squidge Bertie took it gleefully and paid her. "My sincerest thanks, Madam. And for agreeing to the ruse of nursing my sister. I'm sure she has a special meal waiting."

"Gore! I'm to dine at Kirkland house as well as spend the night?"

"Just so, Madam. With my sister and Mother, who are both quite excited and curious to meet you. Farewell." He tipped his hat at her and the coachman as they left, then turned excitedly to Jones. "This is the last of my spell ingredients, as it were. So on that note I believe we're ready, Jones." 

"Yuh, Squidge Bertie? We'll I've been ready fer all this time, so let's get to heroing!" He strode for the door but Vlad stopped him. 

"Cat Bertie go first. You, dog, watch ball with me." He tugged him towards a crystal ball on a corner lace covered table. Meanwhile Squidge Bertie turned off the light and approached Vlad's roaring fireplace. For several minutes he focused on the fire and imagined himself turning into a cat while surrounded by smoke. Then when smoke at last began to swirl around him, he pleaded earnestly. "Oh powers that be, hear my wish. Make me an animal. To fly, or run, or swim, and come back as a human when I choose. So mote it be. So mote it be. "So…" He closed his eyes. "Mote…" He pictured himself as a common street cat. "It be…" The smoke swirled around to completely envelop and transport him...to a Whitechapel alleyway in street cat form!

Kirkland House  
Present Day London

"Woo woo woo! Our humans have been sleeping too long!" Blonde American Cocker Spaniel Alfie Hero, with a fur cowlick on his forehead and 'doggles' on his eyes to help him see, whined to his best friend in the whole world, Brows, a cream colored pub cat with tabby stripes for eyebrows.

"They're not sleeping, as I told you Skiver." Brows explained as he gently pawed Arthur's face, while Alfie Hero licked Alfred's face. "The portrait has put them in a trance, and so we must appease it in some way to bring them back." 

"Woof? Please it? I know what'll please it!" Alfie Hero ran to the kitchen, knocked over a garbage bin, then rooted out a burger wrapper to carry to the foyer and present it to the portrait, tail wagging. 

"No no. The portrait is that of an Englishman, so tea not burgers will be our ticket to appeasing him." Brows left Arthur to pad over to the tea tray the housekeeper had dropped in her haste to escape. "First we must tidy this, then pour him a proper cup." 

The formerly icy glow coming from the portrait took on a hint of warmth at the sight of Brows returning empty tea cups to the silver tray. Alfie Hero used his snout to right the overturned tea pot, still full of warm tea. 

"Right. We must line a cup first to prevent it from cracking." Brows took hold of the creamer cup handle in his teeth, then reconsidered. "I very much doubt I can manage to pour it by myself without spilling. And the portrait doesn't seem the sort of ghost to tolerate spills."

"No?" Alfie Hero cocked his head again. "But spilled things are the best things to lap up! That and garbage stains!"

"Oh Lord, they most certainly are not Skiver! And blimey do you have a lot to learn when it comes to serving tea, so best start immediately." He took hold of Alfie Hero's collar to maneuver him in front of the teacup. "Hold your leg just so, and remain absolutely still." He instructed. Alfie Hero stuck out his right leg and paw while Brows moved the creamer to balance against it. 

"Is this gonna take long? 'Cause there's flowers outside I wanna dig up extra messy." Alfie Hero said, bored already. 

"Dig up that perfect English Garden? Never." Brows protested, then ever so slowly began to pour the cream into the cup using Alfie Hero's leg for balance.


	4. Chapter 4

Flower and Dean Street  
Whitechapel, 1888

Poor Arthur! He as Squidge Bertie was now a cat, a cream colored cat with tabby stripe eyebrows much like his beloved friend Brows, only leaner and feistier, prowling about London's most squalid abyss and the residents of it. Licking dung and soot off his paws. Jumping over passed out drunks and rough sleepers. Avoiding police patrolling in groups of four that intimidated more than protected. 

And Lord, did Squidge Bertie go for it! He was a thrill seeking detective more than an amateur magician and writer apparently, and his new cat form and dangerous surroundings fit him to a tea. Hunting, cat fights, and especially cat sex were as thrilling to him as they were repulsive to Arthur. However, reprieve did at last arrive in the form of Vlad and Jones' voices filling Squidge Bertie's ears.

They instructed him to climb somewhere high and observe the populace as they had been observing the populace from Vlad's crystal ball back at the shop. Squidge Bertie jumped onto a soot cart then a fire escape which he ascended three floors. Then looking down he saw the residents were mostly drunk and stumbling about, a fact he'd only registered as a hazard to be avoided while on street level. However, when one spritely young woman carrying a long object skitted into view it immediately gave Squidge Bertie pause. A walking stick? He puzzled, because her movements seemed anything but compromised. And now...singing? He puzzled some more when a creepy song made his cat ears twitch. "Killing mice. Killing mice. Killing mice." She trilled, then quick as you please stabbed one with what was now clearly a fireplace poker she brandished. 

"That missy! That missy!" Jones' excited voice filled Squidge Bertie's ears. "You get to riling her, and something is bound ter happen." 

He’s right, by jove! Squidge Bertie thought, then quickly pounced down the fire escape and onto the street to give chase. It took less than a minute to spot her shadow in an alleyway, and the poker's shadow as it was once again utilized to kill a hapless mouse. 

"Kill a mouse yerself. Beat her to it." Jones suggested. Squidge Bertie did just that much to Arthur's disgust, and made a great show of it too, hurling the mouse straight at the woman to break its neck. But the kill merely slid down her full skirts to the cobblestone street below unnoticed as she continued to skit along. 

Death has no effect on her. Squidge Bertie observed, then thought of new ways to rile as he watched her sit on a stone wall. Then when she took off her hat to smooth her clean russet hair that was pulled tightly in an expertly coiled and braided bun, Squidge Bertie didn't even wait for Jones to suggest he jump in her hat. He guessed cat hair wouldn't be welcome on either her silken locks or the velvet bonnet he now found himself peeking out of. Right. Done. Now whatever will she do to me? He thought as he hunched in anticipation, more excited than afraid. The answer was swift and fearsome. A flash of manic blue eyes followed by a gleam of knife metal that seemed to come from out of nowhere.

Human! Shop! So mote it be! Squidge Bertie desperately envisioned and chanted himself away from the gaslight lit blade about to stab down. Then smoke enveloped him the same as before, and he found himself successfully back in front of Vlad's fireplace. "Well! That was rather horrifying." He declared, shaken yet exhilarated. 

"Call that hor-ee-fying? She’s stabbed her hat damn near a hundred times!" Jones gestured to the crystal ball he and Vlad continued to watch. "Ain't nothing in it and she keeps to stabbing."

"Is rage, and knife is carving kind." Vlad pointed out. 

"Hoo-ey! You're right, same as I'm right 'bout a room of hers. Cleans that there carving knife and stabbing stick somewhere, and I intend to find out." Jones hooted, then stode cowboy style to the fireplace. 

"Wait, Jones. Have a whiff of the shawl first. It belonged to the second victim." Squidge Bertie retrieved it from the table. 

Vlad shook his head. "Wolf smell blood. Human no smell good as wolf." 

"You mean dog. Jones is to be a dog."

"Need wolf for fight her." 

"Ah, good point. She did prove herself to be quite violent ." Squidge Bertie nodded, then frowned. "But again, vampire hysteria will ensue should a wolf appear. So here is a compromise. Jones, imagine yourself as a dog a lady would adore and be drawn to."

"Huh? Not a bulldog?"

"Not a bulldog as planned, but instead a lady’s sort of dog. Say, a dog like the Queen’s beloved spaniel. Yes, a spaniel should do quite nicely. Picture yourself in that form when you chant my spell.” 

“Er...okay. But I only know what ‘merican spaniels look like.” Jones finished striding to the fireplace, said the chant, then just after he shape-shifted into a spaniel took a good whiff of the shawl before he was transported to the London streets same as Squidge Bertie before him.


	5. Chapter 5

Zagravescu's Magic Shop  
Whitechapel, London. 1888

Now Arthur as Squidge Bertie was truly terrified, as he and Vlad observed via a crystal ball Alfred as Jones in spaniel form quickly sniffing his way through Whitechapel. It was one thing for Arthur himself to relive his relative's Ripper hunt, but Alfred? Certainly Alfred had asked to be put in a trance, taunted Squidge Bertie's portrait even. However, neither Arthur or Alfred could have known their souls would be transported to such dangerous surroundings and circumstances. 

The memory of the maniacal woman's gleaming knife blade just before it stabbed down shook Arthur beyond measure. Would the woman attempt to stab Alfred next? He feared, and felt great relief when the woman was gone by the time Alfred as Jones' spaniel arrived. He also felt relief when Jones' spaniel soon became just as distracted as Squidge-Bertie's cat had been by engaging in dog fights and dog sex. However, after a few hours Vlad and Squidge Bertie instructed him through the crystal ball to sniff the hat the maniacal women had left behind, or at least the slashed remains of it. 

Jones' spaniel did so, then fervently set off to sniff through streets and alleyways so poorly lit he disappeared completely from view. Alfred luv. Alfred luv. Arthur fretted, while Squidge Bertie whose body he was trapped inside reveled all the more at each new twist the investigation presented. Then at last Jones' spaniel did reappear in the crystal ball, and Arthur wanted to cry from relief. However, the spaniel was no longer in grimy Whitechapel but in respectable Hampstead of all places! 

__"Our madwoman owns a townhome in Hampstead? Why, it can't be!" Squidge Bertie gawked at the fashionable residence, the entrance of which Jones' spaniel sniffed and pawed at in an attempt to gain entry. "The lady must be married."_ _

__"No. She mistress who has room only." Vlad pointed out other tenants entering and exiting the building. "And that man lover." He pointed at a cart driver just pulling up. The tall bearded man exited the cart to stomp inside the building without so much as noticing the spaniel that slipped inside with him._ _

__"You think? Why so?" Squidge Bertie asked._ _

__"He mad. Mistresses always make mad."_ _

__Squidge Bertie could only wonder at that. In his entire lifetime he'd had precious little to do with the opposite sex. His family of men had yet to have a woman born into it. So all female roles, including wife and mother, for centuries had been outsourced from English, Welsh, Irish and Scottish families of equal wealthy standing. Potential candidates themselves chose one of many high paid roles, (nurse being the favorite, wife and mother being the least favorite), then per agreement retired after five years with a generous pension more than adequate to live on._ _

__Hence the reason Bertie's wife Clarentia had been a stranger even while being married to him and conceiving and bearing his obligatory heir and spare. She'd made it quite clear at the onset she wished to marry the quietest Kirkland husband who would speak to her as little as possible, then return to her beloved Dorset family once their children were in school, which she did without so much as a parting glance to Squidge Bertie, though their boys maintained an affectionate correspondence._ _

__"Lord. A mistress as well as a wife to be rejected by. I can't fathom it." Squidge Bertie blurted out as he and Vlad watched the madwoman make a great show of turning the man away at her lodgings door._ _

__Vlad cracked a sharp toothed smile. "She no reject. He reject. She lie."_ _

__"You don't say!" Bertie was as astounded as Vlad was correct. The conversation they observed was clearly that of a lover telling his mistress that his wife wanted nothing more to do with her._ _

__"That's a fine thank you for nursing her through her pregnancy." The woman groused, though her eyes looked more cunning than angry, especially when she spotted Jones' spaniel sniffing around her kitchen hearth. "Well! So much for my purchasing a spaniel at great expense, to entertain her and to breed it to earn money for the baby's schooling." /i > _ _

__

__

__"Never say he'll believe it." Squidge Bertie shook his head, while Vlad cracked another smile._ _

__"He believe. Mistresses always believed."_ _

__"You reckon?"_ _

__"Mistresses believed for bed skills, no for words."_ _

__"Ah, I see." Squidge Bertie balked at the thought of being manipulated via sex, then both he and Vlad balked when the madwoman skittered over to the hearth joyfully._ _

__"Breeding puppies. Breeding puppies." She sang to the same melody as her 'killing mice' song as she spooned what looked to Squidge Bertie to be a kidney out of a boiling pot onto a plate for Jones' spaniel to eat. "See how well I feed it dinner?" She made a great show of petting Jones' spaniel as she served the plate. But Jones' spaniel was hardly receptive, to either her pets or the impromptu meal._ _

__Whoosh! He was out the door in a flash, carrying the kidney firmly in his snout as he raced out of the building and into the street. "Is human kidney." Squidge Bertie heard Vlad say just before Jones disappeared from view in the crystal ball, only to reappear seconds later in person stumbling and coughing in front of Vlad's fireplace._ _

__Squidge Bertie helped him to a chair while Vlad fetched water. "Breathe Jones, breathe." He instructed._ _

__"Don't wanna. Smell human rot. Taste it too. Jones gagged._ _

__"What, here?" Squidge Bertie asked._ _

__"No, there." Jones pointed to the kidney he'd coughed up onto the floor. "And at her house. Smelled the shawl blood there too, first thing." He winced at the memory, then spat out the water Vlad brought him to rinse out the rotting kidney taste._ _

__"Well! In that case I shall call the magistrate first thing in the morning to have her lodgings searched. Also, the kidney I'll deliver myself to the coroner's to be matched to one of the victims."_ _

__"No. No." Jones suddenly jumped to his feet and placed huge restraining hands on Squidge Bertie's diminutive shoulders. "You can't get to writing notes and delivering body parts yerself. 'Cuz aren't aristocrats like you getting accused of being the Ripper now?"_ _

__Vlad agreed. "I read in papers. Many think Ripper gentleman."_ _

__"Yuh, and darn tootin' you're a gentleman type the public wants hanged for it."_ _

__"So I am." Squidge Bertie agreed, and smiled gratefully at their having saved him from wrongful arrest and execution. "But then, however shall we tell the authorities of our findings?"_ _

__Vlad said firmly through sharp teeth. "You no tell. They no believe magic. No believe you animal. No believe woman killer. So you no tell anything."_ _

__"Aw!" A fully recovered Jones protested at that. "But we got to get to doing something hero-like, Vlad! Stop these here Whitechapel killings.”_ _

__"I know. We'll magically transport the kidney to the coroner, and put a trance spell on it so when he touches it he falls into a trance and relives our adventures while unconscious." Squidge Bertie rubbed his hands gleefully, and made to sit and work on that spell but Vlad stopped him._ _

__"No. You no cast spell. I cast spell. I cast spell faster, and no want police find that here." He gestured to the kidney on the floor, then abruptly threw back his strawberry blonde head, chanted a Romanian chant, then waved his arms about to make smoke swirl up from the fireplace one last time to transport the kidney away. "There. Is done. We sleep." He said unceremoniously as he pushed them to the door._ _

__"Sleep Vlad? There's hardly any fun in that." Squidge Bertie sighed his disappointment at the adventure ending so abruptly, but left with a generous parting tip regardless. "And you, my wily friend." He began to make out a check for Alonzo Wiley Jones, but the younger man stopped him._ _

__"No, Squidge Bertie. That weren't real work to be paid for. That was hero work that needed doing for free." He insisted, then grinned. "But we sure caught her, didn't we? Tarnation!" He slapped his knee, let out a big belly laugh, then held out his hand for Squidge Bertie to shake which the older man did ecstatically.__

__  
_ _

Kirkland House  
Present day, London

The portrait's glow grew warmer with each step Brows took to appease it. Brows oh so delicately placed a spoon in the cup at a six o'clock position with his teeth and stirred it to the twelve o'clock position without the slightest clink to be heard. Then he removed it and placed it on the saucer, again clink free. 

However, Alfie Hero, bored from watching Brows and steaming in his now overheated dog coat, whined. "Why's this taking so long? Tea's just a drink right?"

Brows nearly dropped the jam spoon he had just picked up to slather a scone. Luckily he managed to finish the task neatly, then paused before moving on to the clotted cream spoon. "Tea just a drink, Skiver? It is a tradition! A tradition of the highest bloody importance! Now fetch me that other scone half. Gently."

Alfie Hero sighed in frustration as he complied, while Brows finished placing a dollop of cream on the first jam laden scone half. Then when Brows prepared the second scone half in the opposite order Alfie Hero barked. "But you just did that!" 

"Certainly not. I prepared one in the Cornish tradition, and one in the Devon tradition. And that quite wonderfully." He admired his handiwork fondly, then began to look about him. "But there is one last, rather highbrow tradition I would like to include. A Royal one in fact."

"Huh, royal? Like Burger King! Now you're talking!"

"No, Skiver. I refer to true British Royal family traditions, not gimmicky American fast food atrocities. Now come with me. We have bottle hunting to get on with." 

"Bottle? Okay! A bottle of Coke's as good as a can to go with a burger."

"Ugh." Brows could only scrunch his emerald cat eyes tight in horror at such a suggestion, then he opened them again to look for a door that led to a wine cellar and exactly the sort of bottle he needed.


	6. Chapter 6

Two Years Later, 1990  
Hampstead, London

His heart in his throat, Squidge Bertie at last arrived at the townhome of his nightmares the past two years, a newspaper tucked in his waistcoat that was still damp from the tea he'd spewed on it in surprise at the headline. 'Woman and Child Missing in Hampstead. Last Seen Near Priory Road.' 

"Ah, but that is likely a murderous husband's doing." Was his first thought as he'd tidied the tea spill with shaking fingers. But not ten minutes later he left Kirkland House in a fret, only to arrive at the townhome where not surprisingly, he found he wasn't the only one worried. 

Jones stood on a nearby curb gray faced, and holding his newspaper in a fisted hand. "Hardly likely to be her, I should think." Squidge Bertie said by way of greeting as he joined the younger man, now dressed in a waiter's uniform instead of strong man attire. "The killings stopped practically the moment Vlad cast his spell." 

"Yuh, but nothing was written in the papers 'bout her being brought in." Jones nodded towards the house. "So fer all we know, she's still been a'killing, only somewhere's else."

"Highly doubtful, that." Squidge Bertie assured him. "For such murders would have been attributed to the Ripper same as the others. And none have been reported."

"I know." Jones breathed slightly easier, but his expression remained grim. "Still gotta find out fer sure though, by having another looks-y." 

Squidge Bertie thought a moment, then quipped. "In your waiter's uniform, Jones? Whatever will your chef brother think?" 

Jones cracked a smile at that, then admitted. "Marceu’s not a chef yet, we just work for one. Frenchy by the name of Bonnefoy, who always has Marceu a boiling snails we get to eat for free. But me, I trade em for minced Hamburg steaks from a German vendor that serves em on a bun 'stead of salad." 

Squidge Bertie balked at that. "Steaks on a bun only? Whatever are you on about, Jones?" 

"Dunno." The blonde shrugged. "Just think they taste future like. And like something folks from my country would get to eating in droves." 

"Certainly not, for I should think your fellow Americans would wish to eat more refined sandwiches! But about this Ripper business, Jones. If you're truly determined to have one last look, I know a certain fireplace that could do nicely."

Jones nodded firmly and grimly, and Squidge Bertie led him to a nearby gentleman's social club where inside conservatively suited men sat reading without a peep to be heard. Jones scrunched up his face at the stuffiness of it all, but knew better than to make a peep himself as Squidge Bertie led him to an out of the way fireplace. Once there, Squidge Bertie began to mouth the spell silently for Jones to imitate. Jones did so grimly, his face turning more gray with each mouthed word, until smoke whirled around him and he transformed into a spaniel as before, sniffing city streets same as before. 

In his absence, Squidge Bertie mouthed a spell that allowed him to watch Jones' spaniel movements in the smoke. The image was more shadowy than in a crystal ball but effective. He saw Jones reach the townhome, charm his way in with tail wags, then make his way up the stairs to the door of the madwoman's lodgings which he cracked open easily then...began howling!

Jones. Jones. Transform. Transform! Squidge Bertie mouthed desperately, but Jones's spaniel now seemed prostrate with doggy distress, incapable of hearing anything but his own howling. Right, I must rescue him before the madwoman hears him. Squidge Bertie resolved, already striding out the club in a dignified but quick fashion. (His Victorian sensibilities wouldn't allow him to break a gentlemen's code, even in the case of life or death.) However, once outside he broke into a run, ran into the townhome and up the stairs, peaked inside to see the madwoman was not present. (Thank the heavens!) Still he was floored by the blood spattered state of her kitchen hearth, floor, and ceiling above. Several knives lay dripping with blood on the floor, along with a single baby shoe. Must get out of here! He thought desperately, and scooped up Jones' howling spaniel and began running. 

He ran and ran, despite carrying a distressed, squirming heavy spaniel. He ran down the stairs, ran out of Hampstead all the way to Windsor, then ran through his own home’s garden gate where he kept a spell casting fire pit. 

"Whoo! Whoo!" Jones’ spaniel howled in addition to shedding profusely once he was put down as Squidge Bertie prepared a fire. Then it was Squidge Bertie’s turn to sit on the ground once the fire was lit, and wrap Jones' spaniel in his overcoat as he held him. 

"Shush shush, Jones. Not a bit of it." He petted and soothed the dog. "Safe as churches now. Transform as soon as you're able. Then I'll serve you aged brandy so potent you'll forget where you are presently, let alone what you saw back there." 

Jones' spaniel howled a bit longer, then merely cried for several minutes, before finally transforming back to human form in a swirl of smoke. "You've done it, Jones! Well done!" Squidge Bertie congratulated him, but Jones remained distressed. 

"Baby...baby...baby shoe...blood…" He cried, less loudly but despairingly.

"Brandy for you, as promised." Squidge Bertie helped him up and led him inside the house to the front entry foyer and a black velvet chair. Jones collapsed into it, tears streaming down his face as Squidge Bertie turned to face the family’s butler at that man’s curious approach. 

"Master Bertie, Sir. I will have your coat sent out to be cleaned immediately." The butler said blandly, though his eyes expressed awe as he held up Squidge Bertie's dog hair covered overcoat that had been left in the garden. 

"No. No. Not a bit of it. I'll wear it as is." Squidge Bertie put it on, and instantly resolved to have the artist currently working on his family portrait add it to the painting. "Also, you can forgo sending someone to fetch a doctor. My young guest has had a bit of a shock that's all, which brandy will soon set to rights." 

The butler nodded as he left, but soon Squidge Bertie overheard him and other staff murmuring to each other throughout the house. Of course they'd all seen Squidge Bertie's antics in the garden as they always managed to do. "Turned the young man into a dog he did! What's next, himself as a cat?" They gossiped.

"Heh heh, just so." Squidge Bertie chuckled to himself at that, then focused on helping Jones down his brandy. 

"Baby...baby...always wanted babies. A whole passel of 'em." Jones whimpered between drinks. 

"Then by jove you must have them, Jones! As soon as may be." 

"Got a missy in New York City I'm fixing to marry. Once I earn 'nuff funds to sh-upport a family." He slurred, quickly becoming drunk already. 

"Well then! You must set off for New York immediately, Jones! Not only to marry and have children, but to see to my family's investments there."

"You offering me a job, Squish-Bershish?"

"Most definitely, Jones! With a hefty advance to start, for I have yet to meet a fellow with instincts as spot on as yours. Instincts that will no doubt lead to excellent investment returns."

"If you shay sho." Jones nodded drunkenly while still wiping away tears. "I'll invesht in the Hamburg steak vendor firsht, that sherves em on bread. Then a drink peddler with a kola nut drink that's mighty tashty, but's got a medicin-y shounding name that needs a changing."

"Whatever you think, Jones." Squidge Bertie said, but secretly thought him addled with drink. Kola flavored drinks and minced steak on buns indeed! 

"But Squidge-Bershish, will ya still wanna employ me yearsh from now if I can't shtop crying?"

Squidge Bertie patted his shoulder then. "Ah, but you will stop crying Jones! Once your firstborn arrives, as Vlad said." 

"Firshtborn? _My _firshtborn? Whooey! I better get to packin, 'cause I shurely can't wait to get to fathering!"__

__"And I in turn can't wait to see you become a father. And better yet, a father of numerous successful business investments. But I myself mean to invest as well, Jones. I mean to invest time in writing books that chronicle our adventures and take the literary world by storm. And so." He raised his brandy glass while Jones raised his. "A toast to the future, Jones. Of the most excellent sort to be sure!" They clinked glasses, downed their drinks, then exchanged smiles full of hope and dreams of prosperity ._ _


	7. Chapter 7

Kirkland House  
Present Day, London

"Pull, Skiver. I said pull not whinge." Brows was holding down a champagne bottle as best he could with his lithe cat body while Alfie Hero tried to uncork the bottle with his teeth. However, it was no use. The cork simply wouldn't budge, and they were forced to give up. 

"Oh no! My human's slept too long as it is, and I really miss him!" Alfie Hero whimpered. 

"As I miss my huma…er, caregiver as well." Brows amended sadly. "But I'm afraid there's nothing else to be done."

"Oh, but there is! There is! I know. Get the glass" Alfie Hero roughly took the bottle in his mouth and jumped onto a side table while Brows delicately maneuvered the champagne glass to rest on the floor beside it. 

"Ready? Here goes." Smash! Alfie Hero crashed the bottle down hard against the edge of the table to break it and pour champagne into the glass along with bottle pieces. But despite the mess, (and making a champagne sodden mess of Brows as well), the trick worked. Squidge Bertie's portrait glowed at its highest, warmest intensity in appreciation, then his eyes shot beams of light into both Arthur and Alfred's eyes to revive them. 

__"Squish-Bershish. Jones. Spaniel. Lady." Alfred sat up groggily, then saw Arthur. "Arthur."_ _

__"Yes Alfred. I've returned as well." Arthur sat up just as groggily, while Alfie Hero and Brows climbed happily into their laps._ _

__"We had animal sex!" Alfred hooted._ _

__"Yes, but a fact I hardly wish advertised." Arthur winced._ _

__"Why not? It was cool, and probably why Alfie Hero and Brows look like us. They're descendents of that time."_ _

__"Good God! I believe you're right." Arthur petted Brows' tabby stripe 'eyebrows,' while in turn Alfred patted Alfie Hero's doggy cowlick._ _

__"And ya know what else?"_ _

__"What, Alfred."_ _

__"You were totally right about British ghosts being more kick ass than Disney ghosts. 'Cuz I've never been so scared in my life as when that lady was about to stab you."_ _

__"Nor I, when you experienced that horrid doggy breakdown." He shuddered._ _

__"Aw, that's so sweet!" Alfred brightened._ _

__"Not as sweet as your apple pie tasting kisses I've missed horribly." Arthur hinted, then scooted over to lean in close, but Alfie Hero beat him into giving Alfred a kiss. Then Brows got in Alfred's way of smoothing Arthur's cheek, by sticking his cat head in Alfred's hand to purr it._ _

__"Ah, Lord. We are loved, aren't we." Arthur chuckled._ _

__"Yes we are. And it'll just have to stay this way. No matter what the world, Bonnefoy, the virus, a haunted portrait, or anything else has to throw at us. We four gotta stick together."_ _

__"Erm. About that. Brows isn't… I'm not… Well at least not yet…"_ _

__"What Arthur, what?" Alfred demanded._ _

__Arthur opened his mouth to say Brows wasn't officially his cat, and due to return to his true owner Nick at any moment, but didn't want to ruin the moment. "We must stay together, just so.” He sighed, then leaned in for their first kiss since being back together while Alfie Hero gnawed on his dress shoes and Brows swatted at Alfred's cowlick to make the moment...more thrilling, titillating, and twisting and turning then any Disney Haunted Mansion ride could ever be!_ _


End file.
